The morning air was heavy with silence, so thick it clung to Aria's skin like a shroud. She opened her eyes and found herself back in the cold elegance of her prison, where every inch gleamed with money but hummed with menace. The choker still circled her throat like a claim a collar in velvet and metal. It didn't hurt, but it didn't have to. It was a reminder, every second, that she no longer belonged to herself.
The memory of last night haunted her muscles. Her knees, still bruised from the velvet carpet, ached with the kind of pain that wasn't just physical. She hadn't been touched. But she had been marked not by hands, but by control. She was no longer free. Not in thought. Not in breath. Not in choice. She had knelt. And now... she would sign.
A new outfit lay on the bed, waiting like a sentence. It wasn't soft, like yesterday's silk dress. This one was different a form-fitting sheath of black that zipped all the way up the back. Sleeves that bound her arms. A neckline so high it felt like a noose. The fabric was expensive, but it wasn't meant for comfort. It was armor elegant, severe, confining. Next to it, a pair of sharp stilettos gleamed under the light. A velvet box contained a tube of blood-red lipstick. There was no jewelry. She didn't need any. The collar stayed on.
She dressed slowly, methodically, like someone preparing for their own execution. With every item she put on, she felt herself slipping further from the girl she had been. She didn't recognize the reflection in the vanity. This wasn't Aria Grey. This was a creation an object sculpted by unseen hands.
Then she saw the card.
Today, you become mine in writing. 11:00 AM. Be present. Be still. —D.
The words were clean. Precise. Like everything about Damien Black. Seduction or sentencing? She couldn't tell. But it didn't matter. She would go.
At 10:55 sharp, a woman she hadn't seen before appeared at her door. Tall. Cold. Military posture wrapped in a tailored black suit. No words of comfort. No softness. Only a question that wasn't a question.
"Ready?"
Aria nodded, though she wasn't. Couldn't be. Not for this.
They walked the hallway together in silence, her stilettos clicking sharply against marble, each sound a countdown to something irreversible. The corridors seemed longer than before. Colder. Her breath fogged slightly with each exhale. She half expected to be led to a gallery of masked bidders, each waiting to purchase a piece of her soul.
But the room was empty.
White. Stark. Clinical.
Walls of polished marble. A single black glass table with two high-backed chairs. And at the center, two leather folders.
Damien Black was already there, of course. Waiting.
He looked like he always did immaculate, distant, controlled. A charcoal suit tailored to perfection. His shirt crisp. His wristwatch gleaming. He didn't rise when she entered. Just watched her with that gaze that felt more like a scalpel than a glance.
"Sit," he said.
She obeyed.
To his left sat a man in a steel-gray suit a lawyer, clearly. His silence was a language of its own. It said: This is legal. This is binding. This is final.
Damien opened the folder in front of him and began to read. Not rushed. Not careless. Every word was savored like a ritual.
"You, Aria Grey, agree to the terms set forth in this contract effective immediately..."
The clauses bled out one by one.
"Duration: 183 days. Compensation: One million dollars upon completion."
"Behavior: Submissive will follow all stated and unstated rules without hesitation."
"Consent to punishment: Submissive acknowledges that rule-breaking will result in disciplinary measures chosen solely by Dominant."
"Emotional detachment is expected. This is not a romantic agreement."
Her heart thundered. Her fists clenched.
He kept reading, each clause another chain.
"The submissive relinquishes the right to physical boundaries within the context of Dominant-approved scenarios."
"All financial bonuses are null if the submissive exits the contract early."
"Failure to complete the six-month term forfeits all compensation and may result in legal penalties."
Her breathing shallowed. The world narrowed to the pages in front of her.
He stopped.
"Do you have questions?" he asked. His voice was soft. Deceptively gentle.
She looked up, her throat raw. "Why me?"
He didn't even blink.
"Because you need to be claimed. And I was the first man honest enough to offer it."
The words slammed into her.
"You're drawn to control, Aria. Not because you're weak. But because you're tired of pretending to be strong."
A pause. His eyes never moved.
"Let me be strong for you."
Her soul twisted. He was offering salvation and damnation in the same breath.
He placed a pen between them.
"You don't have to sign," he said. "You can leave. You'll be broke. Alone. But free."
She stared at the pen. At the pages. Her name was already printed there, faint and gray, like a shadow waiting to become solid.
No one held her hand.
No one forced her.
She reached out.
Took the pen.
And signed.
The silence afterward was louder than anything she'd ever heard. It roared in her ears. Screamed in her bones.
It was done.
Damien picked up his own pen. Signed with a swift stroke. Sharp. Permanent.
He stood.
"Stand," he said.
She obeyed.
He reached into his coat. Pulled something small and silver. A tag. Engraved with one word: His.
He didn't touch her skin. Only the collar.
Click.
A new layer of ownership. A new layer of silence.
"You may leave," he said.
The lawyer gathered the documents and vanished. Damien walked away. No kiss. No touch. No reward.
That night, she sat at the edge of her bed. Alone. The tag glinted in the moonlight like a brand.
His.
The word burned. Heavy. Unshakable.
Then she saw the envelope.
Black. Sealed.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside:
"Tomorrow, your training begins."
"Sweet dreams, little pet. —D."
Her breath hitched.
No more negotiations.
No more illusions.
Just obedience.
It had begun.